Where Antequera's city stands, upon the southern plain, The captive Vindaraja sits and mourns her lot in vain. While Chico, proud Granada's King, nor night nor day can rest, For of all the Moorish ladies Vindaraja he loves best; And while naught can give her solace and naught can dry her tear, 'Tis not the task of slavery nor the cell that brings her fear; For while in Antequera her body lingers still, Her heart is in Granada upon Alhambra's hill. There, while the Moorish monarch longs to have her at his side, More keen is Vindaraja's wish to be a monarch's bride. Ah! long delays the moment that shall bring her liberty, A thousand thousand years in every second seem to fly! For she thinks of royal Chico, and her face with tears is wet, For she knows that absence oft will make the fondest heart forget. And the lover who is truest may yet suspicion feel, For the loved one in some distant land whose heart is firm as steel. And now to solve her anxious doubts, she takes the pen one day And writes to royal Chico, in Granada far away. Ah! long the letter that she wrote to tell him of her state, In lonely prison cell confined, a captive desolate! She sent it by a Moorish knight, and sealed it with her ring; He was warden of Alhambra and stood beside the King, And he had come sent by the King to Antequera's tower, To learn how Vindaraja fared within that prison bower. The Moor was faithful to his charge, a warrior stout and leal, And Chico took the note of love and trembling broke the seal; And when the open page he saw and read what it contained, These were the words in which the maid of her hard lot complained: THE LETTER OF VINDARAJA